


Down Drift

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: 2012 TS Secret Santa Drabble Days prompt "evergreen", Angst, Christmas fic, M/M, Mention of canon-typical violence, Mention of self-destructive behaviors including suicide (not as applying to Jim or Blair), Sad but happier at end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2020-04-05 02:16:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19039126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: It's been a bad day on the job for Jim. At home things -- eventually -- get better.





	Down Drift

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 TS Secret Santa Drabble Days prompt of "evergreen"

Cops have shit days sometimes, days that drive some of them to snap at their families and some of them to drink and some of them to think about taking the short road out.

Today was one of those days.

It's still afternoon when Simon lays a heavy hand on Jim's shoulder and squeezes it for a moment before kicking him the hell out of the bullpen; still afternoon, too early, and Jim wants to protest, but he doesn't. He's got an unopened fifth of Maker's Mark back at the loft and most of a bottle of Cuervo Gold, and maybe Simon's right, maybe he should just go home and… _relax._

But when he gets there, Jim doesn't take off his coat and head for the cabinet under the sink where he keeps the liquor. He doesn't sprawl on the couch with twenty-five ounces of oblivion. He goes out onto the balcony instead, and just stands there, looking up at the sky.

It's starting to snow.

Tiny flakes drift down all around him almost weightlessly, in silence.

It's not at all like rain. Rain _falls,_ it doesn't drift. It has weight, each drop a tiny assault; it makes noise.

It's not peaceful. It's urban, city: rain-wet streets reflecting the colors of December, gold and blue and green and red — too much red —

Some days there's far too much red in Jim's life.

But the snowflakes floating down through the air are white, quiet, clean. They're as close to wilderness as Jim is going to get today, as close as he can get to the bone-deep peace of a trail in the mountains with snow drifting down slowly through the branches of the firs.

The sharp evergreen scent of Douglas fir fills Jim's nostrils anyway, and he blinks and looks down through the snowflakes melting on his eyelashes. Blair was obviously busy this morning; the balcony railing is draped with a looping garland of fresh-smelling fir.

It's hardly a trail in the mountains, but he lets himself focus on fir branches and snowflakes, on the scent of resin, on the gentle down-drift of snow, and it's not so bad.

Maybe things aren't so bad.

Later, when Blair gets home, worried and chiding, and chivvies him off the balcony and into a steamy shower, pours hot soup into him, steers him to the couch and pulls the afghan over the both of them, leaning in close, holding onto Jim, Jim is fine.

He's okay. He'll be okay.

And when they go up to bed, he'll have Blair in his arms, and the scent of fir surrounding him, from the garland draped on the loft railing, and he'll sleep —

He'll sleep well, dreaming of white trails through silent, untouched forests, with Blair's warmth beside him.

With Blair's warmth always beside him.


End file.
